


afterglow

by elaphoi



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/F, i want to be generous and say this isn't PWP but like...YMMV, kind of equal parts sex and extreme silliness, sometimes both at the same time, there is some """plot""" involving a failed camping trip and a fake alien invasion, warnings for some internalized homophobia in the second chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaphoi/pseuds/elaphoi
Summary: Annie had always thought Britta was pretty—mostly, she thinks, with some muted undercurrent of resentment. Britta hadn’t needed to straighten her hair, or snap her horn-rimmed glasses in exchange for contact lenses; men just seemed—naturally—to want her. Watching her now, beneath the crisp fluorescents of the lady’s bathroom, Annie understands. It’s that mouth, she’s almost certain; that mouth, and those curls, and those stupid pleather jackets.
Relationships: Annie Edison & Britta Perry, Annie Edison & Jeff Winger, Annie Edison/Britta Perry
Comments: 17
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally could not tell you what possessed me to write this, but here we all are. Community rewatches are EXTREMELY dangerous, take note. I wrote this in one sitting and I'm sure it reads that way...godspeed.

Greendale’s first annual camping trip had likely been doomed from the start. Budget cuts had downsized the excursion—first a week at Cherry Creek, and then a long weekend; after that, a single night on the Greendale quad. Predictably, torrential downpour had spoiled even _that_ plan, sending students sprinting for the building before midnight, warding off the storm with pillows thrust high above their heads. Annie had lingered in the entrance hall to wring bucket’s worth of rainwater from her hair, and wondered how she’d let Troy and Abed talk her into this nightmarish slumber party in the first place. 

Normally, the circumstances might have plunged the school into a chaos of Wild West proportions, with students vying for the best spots to lay their sleeping bags (nearest the vending machines and farthest from cold drafts); as it is, they’re too tired to care. The five of them claim a far corner of the gymnasium, wedged up against the bleachers—and several feet shy of the closest heating vent. 

Troy and Abed volunteer to brave the wilderness of sleeping bags and wet, irritable students in search of provisions, leaving Annie and the others to fend for themselves. Annie settles on the floor beside Britta, watching absently as she blots the wetness from her Hello Kitty pajama shorts with a towel; they’re pastel and girlish, not at all the sort of nightwear Annie might have imagined Britta to wear. 

_Not_ that she’s given much thought to what Britta Perry wears to bed, obviously; that would be weird. 

Britta catches Annie staring and winks. Annie stiffens, promptly averting her eyes, and casts about for a distraction.

“Well,” Jeff says, with some mocking approximation of cheerfulness, “I don’t know about _you_ , but I can’t think of a better way to spend my Friday night.” Jeff’s sleeping bag—entirely sodden through—lies abandoned beside him. He’s curled on the gymnasium floor instead. Annie thinks, uncharitably, that he looks like a pill bug someone had poked with a stick. 

“Don’t forget your blanket.” With a smile too saccharine for sincerity, Britta reaches for the “emergency kit” the dean had given them; she passes Jeff a roll of paper towels, watching with vicious satisfaction as he tears off a square and lays it delicately across his chest. It soaks up the wetness of his shirt on contact. 

Jeff mirrors Britta’s smile with one of his own—a tight, irritable grimace. “Thank you, Britta. I’m warm now.” 

“Give me that,” Annie snaps, snatching the emergency kit from Britta’s outstretched hands. She works the latch with a nail, huffing her displeasure as she rifles through the contents: a ten-pack of batteries, with no flashlight to hold them; a bag of Cheetos, crushed down to orange powder; a wad of rainbow hair scrunchies, and $800 in Monopoly money. “Well, that’s...just...great! That’s just _so_ great!” 

“Annie,” Jeff says, as evenly as he can with his cheek pressed against the gym floor, “you’re reaching decibels only dogs can comprehend.” 

Britta makes a grab for the bag of decimated Cheetos; Annie watches with mounting distaste as she brings the bag to her lips and proceeds to tap the powder down her throat like a kid guzzling Pixy Stix. 

“ _Gross_ ,” Annie pronounces, with a disapproving sniff. 

“Food is food,” Britta answers around a mouthful of neon crumbs. “You’re gonna get hungry sooner or later.” Annie only purses her lips, still rummaging idly through the kit. Not much remains; she unearths a battered copy of Chicken Soup for the Romantic Soul (a discovery that makes Annie redden, and Britta and Jeff crow with laughter), a single, non-functioning walkie talkie, and a Ziploc bag of what look suspiciously like the pegs to an old Lite Brite set. 

And then, by some miracle: “Aha!” Annie’s beaming triumphantly as she fishes a swathe of heavy blue velvet from the bottom of the container; she smoothes the fabric across her lap, peering down at the constellation of cheerful yellow stars strewn across its surface. It’s a wizard’s robe, cheaply made—likely some cast-off from the drama department. 

Jeff turns over on his side. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make a great wizard.” 

“Oh,” Annie says, smug in her success, “I’m sure I can find a better use for it.” She gives the robe a hard shake, sending up clouds of dust; it’s threadbare and smells powerfully of mothballs—but preferable, at least, to Jeff’s scrap of wet paper towel. 

Jeff seems—at last—to have reached a similar conclusion “ _Shit_ ,” he groans—and then, shifting seamlessly into wheedling mode: “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.” 

Annie arches an expectant brow. 

“Fine. Thirty.” 

She tilts her head, considering. It isn’t often Annie gets the upper hand—and she has every intention of milking this for all it’s worth. “Well. Technically,” she says, slowly for emphasis, “We _could_ fit two people under here.” 

Jeff sits up straight, abruptly enough that his soggy paper towel hits the floor with a wet slap. Britta, setting the decades-old chips aside, comes alert beside her. “Okay, Winger,” she says, dusting Cheeto residue from her hands in a rapid, business-like motion. “Here’s the deal. Rock, paper, scissors. Winner sleeps with Annie.” 

Annie makes a sound in the back of her throat like an angry cat. “You guys, don’t say it like _that!_ ” 

But Jeff only nods, already rocking forward on his knees. “Deal.”

“No deal!” Annie pushes between them, batting their hands aside. “It’s my blanket, _I_ should get to choose who to share it with.” Her eyes pass from Jeff to Britta, and then back again: Jeff, defiant and irritable, with his sad scrap of paper towel; and Britta, yellow curls clinging to damp cheeks, eyes imploring, mouth silently framing the words, “Pick me.” 

“Annie,” Jeff presses, with barely restrained impatience. “Just. Pick.” 

“Fine!” Her eyes dart briefly—nervously—in his direction; she says it quickly, reddening like she’s choosing a date to the prom, and not a friend to share the only dry insulation for miles. “Britta.” 

“Hah! And _that’s_ what it looks like when women support women.” Britta’s grinning as Annie turns back one corner of the robe for her to slip beneath, more pleased—Annie thinks—with Jeff’s misfortune than the prospect of warmth. Annie pulls aside, clearing space as Britta settles gleefully beside her. 

“You’re insufferable.” Grudgingly, Jeff resumes his earlier position, huddled in a pitiful ball. “She’s insufferable,” he repeats, for Annie’s benefit. “You do know that, right? Blink twice if you know she’s the worst.” 

“Be nice,” Annie warns, though he isn’t entirely wrong; the thing is, of course—Jeff is insufferable, too. 

“Yeah, Jeff. Be nice,” Britta echoes, delighted. Her hair is still wet; Annie knows this, because it’s currently tickling her forearm. It smells of rainwater—and faintly, too, of that organic vegan shampoo Britta likes to brag about using, the kind scented with lemongrass and argan oil. She’s spread eagle beneath the blanket, and Annie can feel the coarse fringe of hair where Britta’s legs tangle with hers—because of course Britta doesn’t shave; of _course_.

Annie isn’t entirely sure why her cheeks have begun to heat, but she’s starting to think—either way—maybe this had been a mistake. 

She flips onto her side, fully intending to _tell_ Britta so, and bumps against her—hard—nose to nose. Britta comes abruptly awake; she rubs balefully at her nose, but she doesn’t recoil. She’s near enough Annie can make out the delicate network of veins beneath her half-closed eyelids; near enough that a minute nod of Annie’s head would bring their foreheads together. 

And Annie realizes she had never been quite so close to another girl before. She’d never been the sort for sleepovers—or the sort to have many friends at all, generally speaking. It’s weirdly exhilarating, this proximity, though she thinks it shouldn’t be; this is wrong, definitely...probably. And she should say something—one of them should, at least—but perhaps too much time had passed to apologize properly, and Britta is eying her so expectantly, and—

Annie brings a thumb against the corner of Britta’s mouth, and rubs gently. “Um,” says Britta, with characteristic eloquence. 

“Cheeto dust,” Annie says primly, and turns to face the opposite direction. “Good night, Britta.” 

/ / / 

Annie wakes half hoping to be greeted with early morning sunlight—but the row of windows above the bleachers show a black sky, still lashed with falling rain. There’s a bowl of snacks on the floor between them, piled to the brim with chips and chocolate bars—Troy and Abed’s loot from the cafeteria, she thinks; knowing Greendale students, the vending machines had probably been tipped onto their sides and raided for all they were worth by now. 

She takes a granola bar from the stash. If Britta had been more _patient_ , she might have had something from the snack bowl instead of that pitiful orange dust. 

_Britta_ , Annie remembers in that same instant. She kicks out, and her foot meets empty space—no shampoo smell, no rebelliously unshaved legs, no _Britta_ . It’s cold without Britta’s body against hers (though the thought–strangely intimate despite its practicality—makes her cheeks pink all over again) and Annie is suddenly, obsessively preoccupied with her absence. Had she sneaked out in the middle of the night? What if she _had_ , and now she was warm and content in bed while the rest of them tossed and turned in their damp pajamas? And after Annie had offered Britta her _robe!_

Outraged, Annie tosses the moth-eaten robe aside. Priorities: bathroom first, and then— _then_ , she’ll make a stink. Or leave a _very_ strongly worded voicemail, at least. 

Unsurprisingly, the school is in shambles; even the corridors are crowded with sleeping bags, and Annie’s forced to pick her way over heads and around outstretched hands. The bathroom is mercifully empty, although the nest-like bundle of blankets wedged in a corner makes her think it hadn’t always been; she decides to lock the door for good measure. 

The first stall houses another makeshift bed, a sleeping bag shoved unceremoniously beneath the toilet bowl; Annie’s nose wrinkles at the sight, and she closes the door firmly behind her. The second door is jammed, and it’s a moment before it gives; she works a finger into the groove between door and wall, and pulls with all her strength until at last it flies open. There’s a high-pitched squeak of surprise, and a brief glimpse of _somebody_ scrambling for cover—which is more than enough to make Annie shield her eyes, stumbling over an apology as she backs from the stall. 

“Annie,” the stranger says urgently, in a voice Annie recognizes; and then there's a hand peeling Annie’s fingers back from her face, and she understands. Britta is crouched on the toilet bowl, joint in hand, and Annie thinks not for the first time tonight: _Of course_. 

Leaving would be the proper thing to do in this situation, probably—but Britta’s got her lips pursed around a plume of smoke, and she’s flushed and sleep-tousled and Annie kind of maybe doesn’t want to. 

“Move over,” she orders, and squeezes inside, pulling the stall door shut behind them. She holds herself delicately, careful not to brush the mildewing wall, and extends a waiting hand. And this night had begun to spiral—rapidly—into something like a fever dream, but Annie thinks that’s almost worth it for the look of disbelief on Britta’s face as she passes her blunt across the stall. 

Britta clears her throat. “I can help if you need—I mean, if you don’t know how,” she starts. But Annie brings the blunt to her mouth and inhales—slightly too sharply, maybe; she coughs past the prickling in her throat, and summons a strained smile. And Britta whistles, low through her teeth. “Wow. Didn’t exactly figure you for the, uh.” She gestures vaguely. “The type?” 

Annie means to answer with something smooth, but she can’t help feeling defensive. “Well,” she says, a little heatedly, “Maybe you shouldn’t make baseless assumptions about people!” With a concentrated effort, she swallows another would-be coughing fit. 

Honestly: Britta isn’t wrong. Annie had smoked only once before, in her senior year of high school, at a house party she hadn’t been invited to attend. She hadn’t liked it, then; not the acrid taste, or the scratchiness in her throat, or the way it left her feeling hollowed out, distilled down to not much more than emptiness and hunger. 

But Annie isn’t eighteen anymore. And maybe she wants Britta to think she’s cool, just a little bit—just this one time. 

Annie almost expects Britta to call her bluff, but she only grins and offers her hand for the pass. “Yeah,” she snorts. “I can see that. Any other surprises I should know about? You secretly in the Mafia or something?” 

“I guess you’ll find out,” Annie says, breathless with her own daring. Annie feels altogether unlike herself, at the moment; and she likes that, maybe more than she cares to admit. It’s kind of electrifying, to wear someone else’s skin; to crouch in a grimy Greendale stall, clutching Britta Perry’s joint between thumb and forefinger, and pretend this doesn’t faze her. 

Britta scoots aside, clearing space on the toilet bowl for Annie to sit. “No, thank you,” Annie says, because some things will never change, and maybe that’s for the best. 

“Right,” Britta says. “Your thing with germs.” 

“I don’t have a—a _thing_ ,” Annie protests. “It’s not a _thing_ to not want to get crabs, or—whatever. It’s common sense.” 

Britta groans. “Annie. The cover is down and you’re fully clothed.” 

Annie’s frown only deepens. “Fine,” Britta relents, and resumes her prime seat in the middle of the toilet. She pats her knees, in crude invitation, but Annie doesn’t process her meaning until she adds: “You can sit on me.” 

They aren’t friends, exactly—barring that handful of weekend trips to the mall. And anyway, Annie is pretty sure this would be improper etiquette at any level of friendship. But Britta’s got one brow raised, like she fully expects Annie to decline; and Annie—feeling pleasantly contrarian—decides she doesn’t want to be predictable tonight. “Fine,” Annie sniffs, and thrusts the joint between them. “Hold this.” 

Obligingly, Britta holds the joint at arm’s length, and Annie lowers herself demurely into Britta’s lap. Britta’s Hello Kitty pajama shorts are rucked up around her hips, and Annie realizes she’s palming Britta’s bare thighs. Startled, she raises her hands to grip Britta’s shoulders instead. 

Settled now—if precariously—Annie reclaims the joint from Britta’s hand, and inhales, nice and slow; she doesn’t cough this time, and she’s feeling lovely now, loose-limbed and languid. Britta rests one hand against the small of Annie’s back, as if to hold her steady, and Annie can feel the warmth of Britta’s skin through her nightshirt. Annie shifts, settling against Britta’s lap, and Britta’s hand moves with her, a sweetly solid presence. 

Annie had never sat in anyone’s lap before, apart from her father’s, and sometimes her bubbe’s, and she’s relatively confident that doesn’t count. When you get past the speed bump of situational weirdness, it’s actually kind of nice. She takes another drag, and watches as Britta’s eyes track the progress of her hand, and come to fix on her mouth; she’s looking like she’s unaware Annie _knows_ she’s looking, but Annie doesn’t mind at all. 

She giggles, then, and the sound of it is high-pitched and strange. Britta laughs, too, rough and a little cautious. “Easy there, tiger,” she says, and makes the (probably sensible) executive decision to stub the joint out on the tile floor; it’s just about spent, anyway. 

Annie stops laughing, and seeks—immediately after—to fill the silence. One of Britta’s hands had moved to idle against Annie’s lower back, over her spine; and she holds herself utterly still in Britta’s lap, inexplicably determined to maintain that touch. 

“I locked the door,” Annie says, quiet. The words might as easily have come from someone else. It feels—to Annie’s mind—almost as if they had. 

Britta says, “Annie,” like a warning; like she knows where this is headed. And Annie thinks, a little hysterically, _At least someone does_. 

Annie nearly tells her, “I’m sorry,” though her head feels heavy, and she isn’t entirely sure what for. She’s still got her hands on Britta’s shoulders, and the skin is hot beneath her fingers. Her grip tightens as she twists in place, bringing them properly face to face. “Annie,” Britta repeats, more urgently now, and Annie becomes aware that her hand has found a new home against Britta’s collarbone. 

She reddens. 

Her hand lingers, though. Britta shifts beneath her, carefully, like Annie is some bashful forest animal she’s trying not to spook. 

Annie had always thought Britta was pretty—mostly, she thinks, with some muted undercurrent of resentment. Britta hadn’t needed to straighten her hair, or snap her horn-rimmed glasses in exchange for contact lenses; men just seemed—naturally—to want her. Watching her now, beneath the crisp fluorescents of the lady’s bathroom, Annie understands. It’s that mouth, she’s almost certain; that mouth, and those curls, and those stupid pleather jackets. 

She doesn’t decide to kiss Britta, necessarily; it kind of just happens. Annie’s got Britta’s face in her hands, and their chests are pressed together through their damp clothes, and Annie likes it; wants it, and wants more after. And Annie isn’t—she doesn’t...like women; not like _that_.

But even so.

Britta hesitates, at first. She pulls back, almost at once, and stares at Annie, who shifts in Britta’s lap and stares defiantly back. “Oh, to hell with it,” Britta mutters, and crashes their mouths together with a kind of clumsy urgency. 

It isn’t ideal. The air in their little stall is dense with the stink of weed. Annie is cold where her ankles skim the toilet bowl, and hot where Britta’s hands hold her upright, and she keeps thinking, in blank disbelief, _I’m kissing Britta,_ which makes it sort of hard to focus on doing—well, that. 

Annie says, a little shakily, “Oh my god,” and nearly falls backward in her sudden haste to pull away. 

Britta brings a thumb against her lower lip; it’s pink with Annie’s strawberry lip smackers. “Uh, yeah. You could say that again.” She raises a brow, nonplussed. “Have you ever even kissed a girl before?” One corner of her mouth pulls at a grin, and Annie is torn between indignation and the persistent urge to kiss her again. “I don’t wanna, like—deflower you, or whatever.” 

Annie bites her lip. “Not exactly,” she admits. Annie had thought about it, naturally; she assumes most girls do, at some point or other. And maybe Annie had considered—casually, fleetingly—what it might be like to kiss Britta, but she hadn’t planned to _try._ Britta had featured heavily in these scenarios by virtue of routine proximity; there was nothing more to it than that. 

Her nose wrinkles. “Have you? Pierce is always saying you’re a lesbian, but then you and Jeff had that _thing—_ ” 

“Eugh, okay.” Britta pulls a face. “Here’s a good rule of thumb for you; do _not_ mention Pierce while we’re making out.” 

Annie blinks. “So,” she says slowly, “we _are_ making out.”

Britta makes a noncommittal sound, and Annie takes this as an opening to press her point. She pivots, and swings a leg neatly over Britta’s lap. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Britta as Annie scoots forward, and her hands fall, almost helplessly, to the crest of Annie’s hips. “Fine,” Britta says—a thin, clipped sound, masking obvious want. “Your funeral.” 

“Oh, please,” Annie scoffs. Her eyes narrow discerningly. “You are _so_ turned on right now.” 

Britta rolls her eyes. But she’s watching Annie too, like it’s an effort not to touch her. And it’s difficult—even now—to halt the refrain of, _What the hell are you doing?_ that flares periodically, like a flashing siren through the fog of simple pleasure. But she takes satisfaction in this, regardless; in being wanted, and badly, by someone like Britta. 

Annie holds herself very still as Britta takes her chin in one hand, and tilts it carefully upward. She closes her eyes, patiently expectant, and Britta leans down and presses their mouths together. It’s a decidedly cautious exploration, all closed mouths and grazing touches. Britta seems wary of pushing too far—probably, Annie thinks, out of consideration for her own inexperience; it’s a sweetly misguided assumption, and so very like Britta Annie can’t help but smile. 

“What’s so funny?” Britta demands, on a breath. She pulls away—only slightly—and Annie softens, watching her. 

“Nothing,” Annie says, and kisses Britta again. With gentle insistence, she parts Britta’s mouth with her tongue, and slips a hand beneath the still-damp mass of Britta’s hair, and pulls, just enough to startle her. Britta groans, in—Annie thinks—mingling approval and understanding, and seamlessly adjusts. She kisses back roughly, without restraint. Her teeth catch in Annie’s bottom lip, and bite down hard enough to make Annie gasp. She turns her face to the side and buries the sound against Britta’s cheek. 

Britta snakes a hand beneath the hem of Annie’s shirt and flattens a palm against the smooth expanse of skin. Her nails sink into Annie’s back, and Annie hisses. Briefly, she forgets herself, and grinds sharply down into Britta’s lap; it lends temporary satisfaction, for this _feeling_ building fast between her thighs, and it doesn’t occur to Annie she’s escalated this thing between them until Britta pulls back. 

“Annie,” Britta breathes, and Annie freezes with both hands flattened against Britta’s chest, just grazing the collar of her shirt. 

Annie blinks. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I...is this okay?” 

Britta closes her eyes, and chews at her lower lip—like she’s at war with herself, and losing. Her eyes snap open. With dawning resolve, she reaches between them to pop the top button on Annie’s pajama shirt. “You first,” she decides, and Annie swallows and nods. 

Annie’s not really clear on the logistics, mostly because Britta’s arms are currently the only thing holding her upright, and their combined range of movement is questionable at best. Except Annie’s pulse is skittering beneath the skin of her wrist, and she’s pretty sure she wants this; there’s nervousness, but the nice kind—not the kind to which she’s become accustomed lately, the kind that’s laden with dread. And that’s...different; that’s new. 

This isn’t a line of thought Annie’s keen to go down just now, and so she busies herself with undoing the buttons on her shirt, and smoothing it over her head. It isn’t cold in the little bathroom stall, but it isn’t warm either, and Annie nearly folds her arms over her chest. She quashes the urge, keeps her hands on Britta’s shoulders, and waits as a tense quiet descends. 

Her first boyfriend hadn’t liked to look at her. Vaughn had liked to look almost too much; this hadn’t made her feel much better, though by all accounts it should have. Britta is looking at her now with that same stupefaction, that same quiet hunger; and Annie doesn’t want her to stop. 

She’s wearing a bra she’d gotten in her sophomore year of high school, the faded cotton number. It doesn’t fit, because Annie isn’t sixteen anymore, and it’s trimmed with hideous polka-dot patterned ribbon. Britta doesn’t seem to especially care about any of this. She’s transfixed; Annie notices this with no small amount of pride. 

Britta’s fingers skim the skin beneath the boning, raising gooseflesh. Impatient, Annie reaches behind her back to work the clasp. She holds Britta’s eyes as she shucks off her bra—gradually, and one cup at a time, liking the way Britta tracks every minute movement of her hands. “You...do know what you’re doing, right?” Annie asks tentatively. 

“Kind of?” Britta says. It's pitched like a question, which hardly inspires confidence. Annie bends to set her bra aside, and then straightens, huffing a nervous sigh. She sits stiffly, ramrod straight until Britta lets Annie’s breasts spill out against her cupped hands; and then it becomes surprisingly easy to relax, maybe because she’s too preoccupied with Britta’s touch to feel properly self-conscious. Britta moves to coax her nipples into stiffness, playing them gently between two fingers. She’s unhurried, more than content to linger and lavish attention; she pinches, just lightly enough not to bruise, and grins when it draws out a low moan. 

“Britta,” Annie groans. The sound—embarrassingly—emerges sounding strangled, laying her need bare. “I’m not a porcelain doll. I can handle...” She bites her lip, debating phrasing, and settles sheepishly on: “More.” 

This isn’t a bedroom; Annie remembers that much, though Britta had forgotten. Even with Britta’s hands on her, Annie is half-alert, straining for the sound of a knock at the door. Morning, Annie thinks, can’t be far off—and she won’t be denied her resolution; they’ve come this far already. 

“Okay, okay.” Britta exhales. “Geez, give a girl a second to get the hang of it.” Annie wonders, fleetingly, what this suggests of Britta’s history with women. And then Britta is ducking her head, and Annie catches a glimpse of flushed cheeks past the mass of bright hair, and her mouth descends on Annie. This hadn’t been what Annie meant, either—but Britta’s mouth is warm, and wet and soft, and Annie thinks that maybe these things can’t be rushed, after all. “Oh,” Annie breathes, and pulls closer. 

Britta’s got one hand idling against Annie’s stomach, pressing hard enough to imprint. The other holds Annie steady as Britta’s mouth moves against her. She worries the underside of Annie’s breast between tongue and teeth until the skin turns tender. Some sober, startled corner of Annie’s mind thinks, _This cannot be happening,_ as Britta’s mouth closes around a nipple and sucks until it comes away red. She firmly decides to ignore it. Vaughn, she thinks, hadn’t touched her like this; no one had. 

She hadn’t wanted them to, either—but Annie would prefer not to contemplate _that_ just now. 

Britta shifts, hitching Annie higher, and there’s the faintest scrape of teeth against Annie’s skin, just bordering on painful. Annie’s legs lock instinctively around Britta’s hips—and Britta, feeling charitable, digs the heel of a hand into the juncture between Annie’s thighs. Annie bucks helplessly up to meet her. 

She tears her mouth from Annie’s breasts to kiss her again, soundly; it’s a rough kiss, sloppy and wet and demanding, and Britta says, “Not too gentle now, right?” with such gloating Annie might have scoffed, under different circumstances. As it is, she’s somewhat preoccupied. 

The pressure of Britta’s mouth abates, and Annie responds with a noise of muffled protest. Britta soothes her with a kiss, pressed to the sweet little gap between Annie’s breasts. She pulls back, with one hand braced against Annie’s back. “ _You’re_ the one with the big time crunch,” Britta reminds her, and bends to stroke a thumb along Annie’s stomach, just over the elastic of her pajama pants. “You sure about this?” 

In Annie’s experience, certainty was not a feeling that typically prefaced sex; it does now, though. 

Annie doesn’t say so; it would feel far too revealing. Instead, she stands and pulls at her pajamas until they puddle at her feet. She’s got one foot on her neatly folded shirt, and the other on Britta’s knee, and she wobbles so precariously Britta’s forced to grab her forearm to hold her upright. With the other, Britta crooks two fingers beneath the band of Annie’s underwear, and tugs her sharply forward.

“Nice underwear,” she laughs. They’re pink, with appliques of little tulips. 

“Like you have any room to talk,” Annie scoffs. “Hello Kitty much?” She juts her chin at Britta’s pajamas. “What happened to smashing patriarchal gender roles?” Annie's flushed, across her cheeks and down her neck to her chest. Scowling, she brings an arm across her breasts, still wet and prickling—not unpleasantly—in the places Britta’s mouth had traced. 

“Annie,” Britta says, almost scornfully. “I have my hand down your panties. Pretty sure I’ve smashed enough gender roles for the night.” 

Annie rolls her eyes, rather than succumb to the sudden, insane compulsion to laugh. She says instead, sweetly, “Were you planning to take them off me?” and Britta’s eyes widen. Biting her lip, she dips a second hand beneath the elastic, and eases Annie’s underwear down over her hips. She grips Annie’s thighs as Annie settles in her lap. And Annie watches, and keeps perfectly still as Britta absorbs this newest impossibility—Annie, naked and determinedly straddling her. 

“Just, do _not_ drop me,” Annie warns. She looks behind her, at the bathroom floor, and shudders.

“I won’t let your ass touch that floor.” Britta mock-salutes. “Scout’s honor.”

“Britta?” Annie ventures, almost hesitantly. 

Britta looks up, startled. “Yeah?” 

Annie closes her eyes, and says with thinly concealed impatience, “Can you just...put your fingers in me already?” Her lips meet in a thin line. “Please.” 

There’s a moment’s tense quiet between them, before Britta dissolves into peals of laughter. “What?” Annie demands, reddening.

“Oh, my god, do not _start_ pouting at me. I just…” She snorts. “You think you know a girl.” Her lips twitch, restraining a smile. “Hidden depths, right?” Annie wants to reply with something appropriately cutting, but Britta’s hand drops to the apex of her thighs and Annie abruptly loses her train of thought. 

Britta buries her fingers in the coarseness of Annie’s hair. “Jesus,” she murmurs. “You’re, like...insanely wet.” At the briefest pressure from Britta’s knuckle, Annie shudders. 

Annie makes an irritable noise. “Shut up,” she orders, on a groan. “Just—up, higher. Please.” 

“Patience,” Britta hums, but she obliges anyway, ceasing the rapid motion of her fingers to thrust up, and in. Annie’s thighs clench around Britta’s hand, and she’s riding Britta’s fingers before she can help herself, chasing the right angle, or the right kind of friction. Britta’s got her free hand cupping Annie’s ass, keeping her firmly in place; it isn’t easy, either, with Annie thrusting down on her, single-mindedly resolved. 

Annie huffs her frustration, and shifts, and settles, and shifts again. She’s half-tempted to tell Britta it isn’t enough, that she can’t find release like this, on a fucking toilet bowl in the Greendale lady’s bathroom. But Britta adds a third finger, and the measured motion builds toward something frantic. Annie’s breathing quickens, and Britta leans across to kiss her again, teeth and tongue and building desperation. And Annie comes, with Britta’s fingers still working fiercely beneath her. 

She brings a hand against her chest and inhales as she comes down, steadying herself. Hoarsely, Britta says, “Did you just…?” 

“Um.” Annie swallows, suddenly and acutely embarrassed. “I think so?” 

“You think so?” Britta repeats, sounding almost affronted. She withdraws slick fingers, and leans back in her seat. 

It would be easy, Annie thinks, to curl into herself after that. Annie had buried worse things than—lesbian indiscretions, or whatever it was this had been. It isn’t that she can’t; it’s that she doesn’t want to. And so she settles—hesitantly—on truthfulness instead. 

“No one’s ever given me an, um—an orgasm before.” She pauses, considering, and adds reasonably, “Except for, y’know...me.” 

“Seriously?” Britta breathes, and Annie might have bristled if not for the sympathy in her voice. “Yikes,” Britta can’t restrain from adding, with a pleased grin, “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

"Yeah, yeah," Annie groans. She rocks forward to brush the hair back from Britta’s forehead. It’s sticky with sweat, and Annie wrinkles her nose and wipes her hand pointedly on Britta’s shirt. “Gross,” Annie tells her, not for the first time tonight. 

Britta wiggles her fingers. They gleam beneath the bathroom’s antiseptic lighting. "Yeah, _that’s_ what’s gross,” she says, grinning. And Annie had never seen that slickness on another woman’s fingers; there’s a sense almost of pleasant surreality in the sight of it, and a rush of strong feeling from the pit of her stomach down to her thighs. 

Annie takes Britta’s hand. Her mouth closes—without ceremony—around an index finger and sucks, slowly and sweetly. Britta makes a sound of strangled disbelief. “How,” she starts, almost raggedly. Britta pauses, collecting herself. “How is this the same girl who can’t even say the word penis out loud?” And Annie’s grinning as she yanks Britta in for a kiss. Britta moves one hand to cup Annie’s breast, rubbing circles against the skin with the pad of a thumb, and Annie—arching instinctively into her touch—thinks they may never stop, if they don’t right now. 

Not without effort, Annie slides down Britta’s thighs and stands. She makes Britta turn her head while she cleans up, and doesn’t let her look until she’s getting dressed. “I would skip the underwear for now,” Britta advises, peeking—from the corner of her eye—as Annie struggles to cinch her bra closed. “C’mere,” she adds, and Annie sighs and sweeps the dark curtain of her hair aside, so Britta can get at the clasp. 

Annie looks mournfully at her underwear. “Ugh,” she groans, as Britta locks the top hook into place. “They were my favorite pair.” Firming her resolve, she drops them in the trash, covers them with a wad of toilet paper for good measure. 

“Huh,” Britta says, looking on with barely disguised amusement. “Guess that makes me kind of a lady killer. Or something.” 

Annie’s busy hiking her pajama pants over her hips, balanced on one foot with an arm braced against the wall. She manages, even in this compromising position, to shoot Britta a disapproving look. “Or something,” she mutters. “I’ll go first. Wait at least ten minutes before you follow, okay?” 

Britta raises a brow. “Uh. Why can’t we leave together.” 

Annie's voice turns shrill. “And tell the boys _what,_ exactly?” 

“Annie. No offense, but I’m pretty sure _this_ ,” and Britta gestures emphatically around them, “isn’t the first place their minds are going to go.” 

“Fine,” Annie sniffs. “Then I’ll wait here and _you_ can explain where we’ve been all this time.” 

Britta relents, because Annie has this uncanny knack for getting her way, in the end. She plucks Annie’s shirt from the floor and tosses it. Annie makes an expert catch, and tugs it down over her head in one neat, practiced movement, like this is a typical Tuesday morning for her. She turns to leave, and then reconsiders, and lays a palm against Britta’s thigh and drops a kiss to her cheek. 

“Thanks, Britta,” Annie tells her, meaning it. She hesitates, leaning a satin-covered shoulder against the doorframe, and watches as Britta touches a hand to her face. It settles against the place Annie’s mouth had grazed, as if that small gesture had surprised her more than everything that came before. And Annie gets that; she’s a little surprised, too.

“Oh, and Britta?” she says, smiling now. “Consider this my ‘IOU’.” 

  
  


/ / / 

Troy and Abed are fast asleep by the time Annie (and Britta, ten minutes later, as promised) find their spot in the gym. The dean had finally passed around blankets, and they’re curled beneath a thick, cotton comforter, snoring in unison. But Jeff’s awake, munching pretzels and watching some Tarantino movie on Abed’s laptop as the pale beginnings of dawn stream in through the overhead windows. He’s got a tartan blanket pulled up to his chin like a wizened grandmother, and Annie might have laughed if not for her bone-deep exhaustion. 

“You _do_ know there are blankets now, right?” Jeff asks, watching with burgeoning suspicion as Britta scoots beneath the ratty wizard’s robe; the inside is slightly damp where it’s rubbed up against their wet clothes. 

“I don’t mind sharing,” Annie says, with convincing innocence. Britta disguises her snort as a hacking cough. 

“Right.” Jeff turns on his side, and props his chin on his hand. “And you two were _where_ this whole time? 

“Last time I checked, women have a constitutional right to privacy,” Britta tells him. It isn’t the tact Annie would have taken, but there’s no helping that now. 

“Nowhere in the constitution does it say literally any of that,” Jeff says. He tips the bag of pretzels into his mouth, crunching loudly. Annie thinks he must be on the brink of expressing something equally inflammatory, but Troy yawns loudly, and they lapse into awkward quiet. Britta’s breathing evenly before long. In sleep, she forgoes discretion and buries her nose in the crook of Annie’s neck. Annie tenses, but she can’t bring herself to push Britta away. She keeps her eyes fixed on the screen instead, absorbing the gratuitous blood splatter with careful impassivity. Her heart’s thudding so furiously she’s surprised it hadn’t roused Britta, and she wishes—fervently—Jeff had slept in later; anyone else, she thinks, would have been preferable. 

“Oh, Annie,” Jeff says, like he’s just remembered something. He’s good—far too good—at affecting casual disinterest, and Annie can’t help but assume malicious intent. “You have something on your chin.” Annie touches a hand to her face, and rubs tentatively at a spot just below her jaw. “Little more to your left. There,” he says, and her hand comes away pink with lipstick. 

Jeff is watching her closely, following this revelation to its inevitable conclusion. Her cheeks flood with color. 

Britta’s tracing lazy patterns beneath Annie’s shirt, over her stomach; it feels nice, Annie thinks. And it’s terrifying, that Jeff knows, but maybe it’s gratifying, too. Annie’s never seen him so lost before. It's a good look on him. 

Annie tells him, not unkindly, “Eat your heart out, Jeff,” and turns to hide her grin against Britta’s shoulder. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie had always thought Britta was pretty–mostly, she thinks, with some muted undercurrent of resentment. Britta hadn’t needed to straighten her hair, or snap her horn-rimmed glasses in exchange for contact lenses; men just seemed–naturally–to want her. Watching her now, beneath the crisp fluorescents of the lady’s bathroom, Annie understands. It’s that mouth, she’s almost certain; that mouth, and those curls, and those stupid pleather jackets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't mean for this to be a two-chapter situation but here we all are!

It had been three days and nine hours since the _incident,_ as Annie had taken to calling it in her head–or roughly speaking, anyway. Annie hadn’t bothered to count the thing out properly; _that_ would be obsessive, which Annie most certainly is not. And anyway, the amount of time hardly seems to matter; it had taken all of two minutes to confirm that lunch dates and joint trips to the movies weren’t exactly in the cards. 

In hindsight, maybe this shouldn’t have surprised Annie. People say a lot of things they don’t mean under the influence of drugs. Annie knows _that_ better than most; it’s why she does her best to avoid them...generally speaking. And besides, even at her most sober, Britta isn’t exactly known for being the queen of commitment. But Annie had thought...well, she guesses it doesn’t matter _what_ she’d thought.

Stupid, sentimental Annie had assumed too much. Again. 

At first, Annie’s determined to outdo her; if Britta is content to bury their night together, fine!–Annie can, too. She’s practically a college graduate, and _definitely_ adult enough to be aloof about…one-night stands. Who _wouldn’t_ want to push away a potential lifetime of genuine human connection for the sake of thirty sweaty minutes in a bathroom stall? It all makes total sense. 

At least, that’s what Annie tells herself. Except she’s been finding it... _difficult_ , lately, to meet Britta’s attempts at casual conversation with the requisite smile and nod; actually, she’s been finding it difficult to be nice to Britta altogether. Which may or may not have _something_ to do with the way Britta had tossed her out like day-old garbage–but who’s to say, really? 

The silver lining is this: Britta is almost always late. And tardiness isn’t normally a trait Annie appreciates in _anyone_ , but in this particular case, she’s glad of it. It leaves ample time to steel herself for Britta’s arrival–time to ensure the last vacant seat is far from her own; time to school the expression on her face into something plausibly impassive. 

For the good of the study group, of course. 

Annie is prepared for nearly every contingency– _except,_ apparently, for the one where Shirley makes a beeline for the bathroom at precisely the wrong moment, leaving the seat beside her wide open. Britta sails in seconds later, bleary-eyed with one hand wrapped around an obscenely large cup of coffee, and plops right down next to her. Annie makes a small, outraged noise, and then remembers–they’re being _nice_ , right? She tries her hand at a pleasant smile; it’s over-wide and insincere, and only makes her cheeks ache. 

Someone loudly clears their throat, and Annie thinks she’s probably not doing a very convincing job; it’s Shirley’s fault, really–Shirley and her _stupidly_ tiny bladder. 

Britta tips her head to one side, brow furrowed. “You...good?” she ventures. Annie inhales sharply, more than slightly offended with the question; is she _good?_

She clasps her hands stiffly against her chest, focusing intently on a point several feet shy of Britta’s shoulder. “Great,” she says, coolly. 

“Well.” Britta summons a strained smile. “That’s...uh, great.” 

Abed is eying her in that way of his– _far_ too knowing for comfort. Annie fixes her attention on the notebook in front of her and doesn’t look up again until the subject has changed. Someone takes pity and steers the conversation in a different direction, onto weekend plans and anthropology and the dean’s latest scheme–some mock drill in “preparation” for the apocalypse or extraterrestrial invasion, or possibly both; truthfully, Annie’s only half-listening. Troy is drumming his fingers on the table, and she’s focused mostly on that–on the solid, steady rhythm of it. 

She nearly chances a sideways glance at Britta, then immediately thinks better of it. Jeff had been bad enough, but _this…?_ Annie doesn’t even _like_ girls, probably...she thinks. Even if there _had_ been that deep-down, toe-curling feeling in the pit of her stomach when Britta had…

( touched her. ) 

And oh, God, she–she’d instigated, hadn’t she? She’d _wanted_ –still wants…

Annie’s cheeks heat, and she lurches out of her chair so quickly she nearly knocks it over. “I…” Everyone is looking, of course–expectant, even concerned; she swallows, shakes her head as though to clear it. “Bathroom,” she says, a little breathlessly. 

She smoothes her skirt, bobs an awkward nod, turns on her heel with every intention of bolting–and the dean’s voice splits the silence. “Attention, students and faculty of Greendale–there’s been a _very_ exciting development...aliens have landed on campus! Hopefully they come in peace, but it’s up to all of us to find out. In just five minutes, you’re all going to hear a _teensy_ little alarm signaling the start of this fun little exercise. Now, don’t go panicking on us! When you hear the alarm, proceed single file to the nearest–” Too soon, his voice is swallowed up in static noise, and the alarm hits like a baseball shattering glass–unexpected, and utterly deafening. 

The response isn’t instantaneous, exactly; there’s a moment’s would-be silence, punctuated only by the blare of the sirens. Then, the halls overflow; the thin trickle of students becomes a crowd, becomes a stampede, and the alarm is undercut by a swell of frantic voices. Leonard, coasting on sheer adrenaline, sprints past waving a baseball bat. The dean is close behind, panting as he threads his way through the press of people. “Single file!” he shrieks, bending at the knee to catch his breath. “For God’s sake, everyone, it’s not _real!”_

“Well,” says Jeff, watching the proceedings with one brow raised, “Looks about right.” 

“We’re not actually humoring this, are we?” Britta asks, nose wrinkling. “What if someday Greendale has an actual fire?” She leans back in her seat, stubbornly decided. “If you ask me, this whole thing is making light of a _very_ serious situation.” 

Jeff opens his mouth (probably to inform Britta that he had not, in fact, asked her) but Troy beats him to the punch. “But...what if there _is_ an alien invasion?” He darts a meaningful look at Abed; Abed gives a brief, affirmative nod. 

“Exactly,” says Jeff, looking appropriately solemn. “I say we get out there and show those aliens what Greendale’s made of! Who’s with me?” 

Britta stands, groaning as she does. “You guys all know he’s only saying this to get out of our Anthropology quiz, right?” She looks sideways at Annie, seeking support. Hugging her books to her chest, Annie sweeps past without a second glance. 

Jeff ushers her out the door, one guiding hand on the small of her back. They’re torn apart an instant later, born down the hallway like surfers on the crest of a wave. Annie clings to Abed’s shirt, buffeted on all sides by frenzied students; she’d always managed to avoid the kinds of places that drew crowds, and already she can feel anxiety setting in. Jeff is at the front now, batting people aside with his backpack, and it’s–chaos, really, as bad as those mosh pit things Britta likes to crowdsurf through. Not that Annie’s ever _been_ to a rock concert, of course, because, well...ew. 

But she figures if she _had_ , it would go something like this. 

Students are spilling out onto the lawn, where the crude approximation of a spaceship lies in wait; it’s large and misshapen, obscured beneath layers of tinfoil. There’s more, and Annie’s craning her neck to catch a glimpse when someone shoves her _hard_. Annie hits the wall, head ringing; she hears Shirley calling her name, and then the others are ranged around her, a shield against the endless stream of people. 

Jeff’s doing that protective _thing_ he does, probing her forehead for bruises like she’s a little girl who’d fallen off her bike. She scans the group as he does, running through a mental headcount, and...

“Britta,” she breathes, brushing Jeff’s hand aside. “Where’s Britta?” 

Abed is matter-of-fact, as always. “Probably hiding in the supply closet like she usually does when she wants to get out of something she thinks is stupid.” And that’s...hardly surprising; anyway, it’s none of her business what Britta does. It’s certainly not like they’re _dating_ or anything.

“Fine,” Annie sniffs. “She can do whatever she wants! I don’t really care.” But Jeff’s eyes narrow–skeptical, and keenly perceptive in that way she _hates._

“Okay,” he says, evenly. “But don’t you, though?” Annie sucks in a breath–darts a glance from Abed to Jeff and back again, growing huffier by the second. She hesitates a moment longer, hands held in balled fists at her sides. The comment _seems_ innocuous enough, taken out of context–but Jeff’s got that knowing, self-satisfied smile, and she thinks he must know exactly what buttons he’s pushing. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Annie says; she squares her shoulders and stomps off before there’s a chance to think better of it. 

Pushing against the tide is easier said than done; she manages mostly by ducking and weaving until the crowd thins down to nothing. Past the cafeteria, Greendale is a ghost town. Empty corridors are littered with debris from the riot, school supplies and furniture strewn across the floor. She picks her way through it with care, every sound carrying in the silence. 

The door to Study Room F gives with a push, and then Annie’s gunning for the corner supply closet. Her hand stills, briefly, against the knob; she inhales, then breathes out, working to keep the resentment at bay. 

The door swings open and Britta comes with it, swearing loudly. She hits the ground on her back, hard enough to bruise. It’s petty, but Annie can’t bring herself to feel much sympathy. “Oh, _real_ mature,” she says, arms folded. 

Britta’s rubbing balefully at a spot on the back of her neck, already–Annie notes, with a mixture of guilt and satisfaction–beginning to purple. “C’mon, you can’t seriously tell me you think there’s a point to all this.” 

And, no–of course not; Annie’s not _stupid_. There’s never much point to anything at Greendale. But, well–it’s still their school, and they always do these things together, as a group, no matter how silly or pointless...or potentially lethal, sometimes. 

“It’s the principle!” Annie snaps, and the anger she’d worked so hard to hold at bay comes pouring out in a sudden rush. “You can’t just–go around _ignoring_ stuff because it’s hard or it makes you uncomfortable or you don’t want to deal with it! Maybe _some_ of us are actually capable of being vulnerable every once in a while! Ever thought about that? Maybe _some_ of us aren’t afraid to actually care about stuff! And _maybe_ –” 

Britta throws up her hands in a supplicating gesture. “Woah,” she says, “Okay, are we still talking about the drill here? ‘cause I’m kind of losing track.” 

Annie’s breathing hard, and she can feel her cheeks beginning to heat. “You know what? Fine! Get eaten by aliens, see if I care!”

“Annie,” Britta starts, with an air of long-suffering patience, “Aliens don’t _eat_ people. They–” but Annie–halfway to the door–flashes Britta such a hard look she quails instantly. 

She’s not sure why she’d bothered to come back for Britta in the first place, but it had obviously been a mistake; she’s still angry, tired of hiding it–and Britta, as usual, is impossible. She doesn’t _mean_ to get under Annie’s skin, not like Jeff who’s liable to poke at an open wound for the fun of it. 

Britta’s just oblivious. And maybe that’s worse, somehow. 

Annie’s got one foot in the hall when the intercom crackles to life. “Students and faculty of Greendale–it’s time to batten down the hatches! Greendale is now entering lockdown mode. I repeat, Greendale is now entering LOCKDOWN MODE. Any student seen leaving or entering the school will receive an F for the semester.” 

Annie and Britta exchange wide-eyed looks, argument momentarily forgotten, and then: “Just kidding! That would be _crazy_ , right? But seriously, folks, don’t test me.” 

Annie darts a glance at the door, considering anyway; she _could_ sneak out, probably. The dean’s not generally one for strict punishment, and she doubts there would be any real repercussions, playful threats aside. But, what if…?

Sighing, Annie closes the door gently behind her, pads across the room, and sinks down to the floor. She guesses this serves her right for coming back at all. Britta obviously hadn’t wanted to be found; she’d been hiding for a _reason_ , after all. 

Her righteous indignation is fading now, and that earlier outburst doesn’t seem brave in retrospect–just juvenile, and kind of lame. Maybe Britta’s right to pretend nothing had happened; maybe it shouldn’t have happened at all, and Britta’s just trying to spare both of them from further embarrassment. 

Britta’s still eying Annie like she’s a ticking time bomb, prone to exploding at the slightest provocation. Self-conscious now, Annie smoothes a hand through her hair. “Guess we’re stuck here,” she says, and forces a laugh, soft and somewhat sheepish. 

“Guess so,” Britta says, and smiles with that easy warmth Annie can’t help but envy. “What’d you even come back for?” She snorts. “Forget your notes on alien invasions?” 

Annie rolls her eyes. And she should know better than to _say_ so, but it slips out anyway: “I came back for _you_ , Britta.” 

It’s a mistake; Annie knows the moment it’s out of her mouth. She’d meant it to be scathing, but it comes out sounding strangely tender instead. “Oh,” is all Britta can think to answer. Annie picks at a wrinkle in her skirt, waiting. 

“Annie,” Britta says, finally. “‘I’m not really great at the whole...feelings... _thing_ , okay?” 

Annie snorts. “Yeah, I was starting to get that impression.” 

“I just figured…y’know.” Britta rolls out her shoulders, wincing when it pulls at a fresh bruise. “We did...whatever the hell it is that we did, and we got it out of our system. Right?” Her eyes narrow as they meet Annie’s, like she’s searching for the answer to some unspoken question. She’s gnawing at her lower lip again–a nervous tic, Annie thinks; it’s a terrible habit, mostly because it kind of makes Annie fixate on her mouth. 

And that’s the _point_ , isn’t it? Britta and that deepening bruise on her bare shoulder and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and... _and_. There’s no point pretending it doesn’t make her weak in the knees, just a little. Annie’s nothing if not a chronic romantic. 

“Well,” Annie says, trying not to sound too sullen. ”What if it’s still _in_ my system?” 

Britta bites down harder, deliberating–and then, like she can’t help herself: “Is it...?” 

Annie turns her chin up, almost defiantly. It isn’t an _answer_ , really, but Britta finds herself scooting forward anyway, closing the distance between them. And Annie–maybe not _entirely_ subconsciously–is doing her prettiest impression of a deer in the headlights, eyed rounded, mouth half-parted. She leans in, eyes fluttering shut–

“No way,” Britta snaps, “No! This is so, _so_ not happening again!” Annie’s eyes snap open. Britta’s got one finger pressed against her lips, forcing them shut. 

“Mmmph,” Annie tries, spitting mad–and then, wrenching Britta’s hand away: “Britta _,_ what the _hell?”_

“You’re, like...twelve. And you’re into _Jeff_ , and Jesus, I am _not_ high enough for this right now.” 

“Jeff?” Annie scoffs. “Is that what this is about? I wasn’t up all night thinking about _Jeff_.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Britta processes the implications–and then she’s clearing her throat, wide-eyed. “Oh,” she manages, almost dazedly–and _then,_ Annie knows. 

She keeps her tone off-handed. “It’s just...y’know. Technically, I _do_ still owe you, right? But clearly you’re not interested, so...” Annie shrugs, thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“ _Annie_ ,” Britta grounds out the word between clenched teeth, and Annie smiles her best apple polishing smile. 

Half-reluctant, Britta pulls closer. “This is the _last_ time,” she warns, and Annie wonders who it is Britta’s trying to convince. She holds still as Britta brings a hand against her cheek, tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear; it’s a self-conscious gesture, like Britta’s half-convinced she’s dreaming. 

“Mhm,” Annie murmurs, gently appeasing.

Britta drops a hand to Annie’s chest, fumbling with the buttons on her cardigan. “I’m not, like...a lesbian.” 

Annie nearly smiles. “Right,” she says, “Me neither.” Her eyes narrow as Britta pops one button, and then a second; she threads her fingers through Britta’s, guiding them aside. “It’s your turn,” she says, almost sternly. “Remember?” 

“Oh,” says Britta, “Yeah.” Annie’s got a thumb against Britta’s wrist, and she can feel her pulse skittering madly beneath the skin; Britta’s pink-cheeked, nervous, though she hadn’t been the night before. It must be catching; Annie’s own heart is thudding a painful staccato. 

She plants both hands, palm-down against Britta’s chest–and Britta leans in, but Annie _thrusts_ back, hard. Not for the first time today, Britta smacks back-first against the floor, raising bruises on top of bruises. “Annie!” Britta bites out, massaging that same, stinging spot on her shoulder.

“I’m–” Annie is laughing so hard she chokes on the words. “I’m sorry, I was trying to be sexy!” 

She’s got one knee on either side of Britta’s waist, fingers bunched up in the fabric of her shirt–all five feet, three inches of her pinning Britta down. Britta drops her head back against the floor, breathing out in a whoosh. “Uhuh. Any chance you could be sexy _without_ trying to kill me?” 

Annie smiles, suddenly sheepish. “Um. Yeah,” she says, “I think that can be arranged.” Obligingly, Annie lowers herself down; she peels away the leather jacket, works her way deftly down the plaid shirt with it’s column of little black buttons. Annie quirks a brow at Britta’s bra, all white lace, and Britta glares back like she’s already rallying her defenses

“Pretty,” is all Annie says, and Britta, placated, arches her back so Annie can get at the clasp. 

There’s a kind of tremor working its way up through Annie’s chest, like she’s in freefall on a carnival drop tower. Tentative, she slips a finger beneath a lace-trimmed cup, drags along the nipple until it stiffens beneath her touch. Annie presses closer, until her mouth is on Britta; she sucks at a spot on her breast until it turns rosy, and then moves lower. Britta bites back a moan as Annie’s mouth closes around the nipple, and her hand snakes beneath her pants. 

Annie pulls back, slapping Britta’s hand aside. “No cheating!” 

“Annie,” Britta groans, “This isn’t a pop quiz.” 

“Fine,” Annie says, moving to rise. “Do it yourself, then!” But Britta catches Annie’s wrist in her hand, tugging sharply, and Annie topples backward.

Britta’s grinning, breathless. “Okay,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Your way then,” and Annie leans down to kiss her. It’s different than it had been that night in the Greendale bathrooms, when Annie had felt giddy and strange, and needed so badly for Britta to anchor her. Now Annie parts Britta’s mouth with her tongue, and Britta rises eagerly to meet her, fingers tangling in the sleek, dark curtain of Annie’s hair. Annie’s still straddling her, hips canted at just the right angle, and Britta strains toward her, transparent with want. 

Annie slips a hand beneath Britta’s pants, beneath her underwear, to the dense, already dampening patch of hair; it comes away slick and warm. 

Britta had said this wasn’t a quiz, but–it kind of _is_ , isn’t it? And Annie’s never content to place second best. 

She draws back on her knees to pop the button on Britta’s jeans. Britta shimmies helpfully, and Annie pulls until they’ve got them down around her knees. She runs an experimental finger along Britta’s clit through her underwear where the cotton is stained darker, and Britta rolls her hips. “Annie, I don’t know if you know this, but it’s considered _very_ bad etiquette to tease,” she says, more than a little frustrated. 

Annie’s still got two fingers rubbing out lazy circles, feeling Britta’s wetness through that thin barrier of cloth. She wrinkles her nose, frowns. “Nobody likes a backseat driver, Britta,” she says, and Britta rolls her eyes. But she dutifully subsides all the same, bearing Annie’s grazing, exploratory touches in desperate quiet. 

Finally, hesitantly, Annie slips a hand beneath the band of Britta’s underwear. She sucks in a breath. “Britta, I don’t really know... _how_.” 

Britta’s spread eagle beneath her, that bright mass of curls fanned out against the study room carpet. She’s beautiful like this, bared down to the jeans pooled around her boots. There’s a strip of fine, light hair tracking the path from navel to pelvis; Annie runs an idle knuckle along its length, liking the way her touch raises goosebumps on Britta’s skin.

“Annie,” Britta says, a little hoarsely. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, right?” She leans sharply forward, palms braced against the floor. Annie’s eyes can’t help but fix on Britta’s chest, pale and perfect. 

“I know.” Annie’s voice drops to an urgent whisper. “But I want to. Britta, what if I’m really a…?” Her mouth frames the word; it’s the most she can manage. “I’m sorry. I’m freaking you out, aren’t I?” A nervous sound, half-laughter, spills out of her. 

Britta swallows. “Well, if it’s any comfort...you’re kind of a natural.” 

Annie flushes, oddly pleased despite herself. “Um...thanks?” She scoots back, situating herself, and then dips down–drops a kiss to Britta’s inner thigh, to the smooth expanse of skin, webbed faintly with stretch marks. She hears Britta inhale. “You’ll tell me if it’s not good, right?” Annie asks, like this is Anthropology 101 and she’s terrified she might give the wrong answer. 

“It’s already good,” Britta says, and Annie smiles. 

Britta’s tensed beneath her, legs parted, waiting on bated breath for the pressure of Annie’s fingers. Annie peels back Britta’s panties, soaked through at the bottom, and smoothes them down over her thighs. She works one finger against Britta’s clit, strokes in languid, circular motions, gauging her wetness. Her mouth finds that same spot, presses a flurry of kisses–first sweetly, lightly, and then open-mouthed, warm and wet and everywhere. 

Pressing with her fingers hadn’t felt half as foreign to Annie; it’s not so unlike sliding a hand between her own legs at night. This is different–intimate in ways Annie had only begun to anticipate, without fully understanding until now. It’s the _taste_ of her mostly, that startles Annie–a little frightening, exhilarating in its strangeness. 

Britta’s thighs twitch, and she strains helplessly against Annie’s mouth. The kisses abate; Annie falls into easy rhythm, burying her mouth in Britta, teasing her opening with the slow pull of her tongue. Britta shudders as the tension leaves her–not violently, but with gradual, cresting pleasure, subsiding into grateful release. Annie stays with her as she comes, nails digging marks into the skin of Britta’s thighs. When it’s done, she presses a kiss to her stomach, just beneath the navel–and next past her breasts, to the raised wings of her collarbone, until Britta’s forced to seize Annie by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. 

“Give a girl a minute, Annie,” she groans, “My God.” 

Annie reddens, swiping slickness from her mouth with the back of a hand. “My _God_ ,” Britta says again, with feeling, and yanks Annie in for a kiss; she’s grateful when Britta leads, and more grateful still when she grinds a knee between Annie’s thighs, appeasing that dull, persistent thrum of need. “Now I feel like I owe _you_ ,” Britta says when they pull apart; she’s all-over pink, her mouth prettily kiss-swollen. 

“Britta, if we owe each other every time this kind of stuff happens, it’s never going to stop. I’m pretty sure that’s just called sleeping together?” She tries her best to look solemn. “Maybe we should just call it even. Unless you…?” Annie bites her lip, with shamelessly calculating intent. 

Britta gives her a scornful look. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, huh?” 

Her hand slips beneath Annie’s skirt all the same, rubbing circles between her legs, up against her stockings. Annie leans into her touch, needing this–needing release of her own, if only for a moment. Britta finds the apex of her thighs, and presses there, just as Annie hears them: the distant, unmistakable sound of an approaching stampede. Britta grinds her knuckle against Annie’s clit roughly, abruptly, and Annie feels wetness beginning to pool there.

She tries Britta’s name, but a hand dips beneath the band of her stockings and Annie falters, caught up in wanting. It’s an effort to tear her attention from Britta and those fingers and that _touch,_ the languid strokes building quickly into urgent, purposeful rhythm. 

Resigned, Annie opens her eyes, and the study room swims into focus–Britta, naked from the waist up, kneeling under the study room table with one hand working beneath Annie’s tweed skirt; and the windows at their back, the blinds raised. 

“Britta,” she hisses, and Britta, startled, withdraws her hand. “They’re coming.” Annie’s voice jumps an octave, high and thin and panicked. She scrambles to gather Britta’s things and tosses them blindly over her shoulder, burying Britta in an avalanche of her own clothing. “Hurry!” 

“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.” Britta’s reply comes muffled from beneath her tank top; Annie gives a helpful tug, and the shirt settles neatly into place. “Okay,” she breathes, “Okay... _shit_.” And Annie follows her line of vision to the lace-trimmed bra, crumpled on the floor beside them; one strap is looped, impossibly, around the table leg, and Britta’s straining to prise it free. 

Annie glances from Britta–fully clothed–to the abandoned bra and back again. “You forgot to put on your _bra?”_

“Help first,” Britta grunts, still struggling to lift the table leg off the ground, “Judge later!” 

Rolling her eyes, Annie leans up on her knees, flattens both palms against the table overhead, and _pushes_ with all her strength. It rises, just long enough for Britta to snatch up her bra; she flings it in the direction of the open supply closet, and scrambles to her feet, breathing hard. 

Annie’s just sliding into her seat when the door swings open. She flips open her Anthropology textbook, with slightly _too_ much force; it hits the table with a dull _slap,_ drawing Jeff’s eye. He’s alone for the moment, covered from head to toe in neon green spray paint, and looking distinctly like he’d just run a marathon. “I’m so glad the two of you were having a pleasant morning inside while the rest of us were out there busting our _asses_ trying to stop Commander Qoltoth from annihilating the school.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and Annie eyes Jeff with tentative concern. He brings a hand to his temple, as though to ward off an encroaching migraine. “I guess you had to be there.” Annie thinks Jeff might say something more–but his attention fixes on a point somewhere behind her, and his mouth snaps shut. 

Suddenly wary, Annie looks, too–only to find Britta’s pretty lace bra, dangling by its strap from the supply closet door knob. “Your aim is _awful_ ,” Annie hisses across the table, and Britta winces her agreement. 

She’s poised to stand, but there’s the telltale shuffle of footsteps on linoleum, and she falls tensely back in her seat. _Help_ , she mouths, eyes wide with horror, and Jeff seems to make several decisions all at once. With the study group closing in behind him, he makes a run for the supply closet, yanks Britta’s bra off the handle and thrusts it into a box of acrylic paints. He grabs something at random, and kicks the door soundly shut behind him. 

“I forgot my, uh…” Annie watches with mounting anxiety as Jeff darts a look at the _thing_ in his hand–and it’s weird, because of _course_ it’s weird. She offers an encouraging smile. “Papier-mâché duck,” he says, through gritted teeth.

Abed watches him for slightly too long, squinting hard at the little paper duck. “Okay,” he says, finally, “Cool,” and Annie looses a heavy sigh of relief. 

_Thanks_ , she mouths, and turns in her seat as the group files in. Like Jeff, they’re all exhausted, and speckled with green paint. Annie tries her best to look interested as they run through the highlights–the faculty in their Party City spacesuits, the cardboard spaceship covered with aluminum foil, and the way it had collapsed beneath their feet halfway through the exercise. 

She doesn’t look up when Jeff takes the seat beside her, but she tenses, awaiting the inevitable. He leans close, mouth against Annie’s ear, so that only she can hear. “You do know you guys are _terrible_ at this, right?” 

Annie glances over at Britta, seated as far from her as humanly possible. She’s laughing, watching as Troy tries and fails to flake the dried paint off his hands–but she must sense Annie watching, because she looks up and smiles. “We’ll work on it,” Annie says, not troubling to keep her voice low; no one would hear, anyway, over the swell of conversation. "You won't tell, will you?" 

"No," Jeff says, and sounds–mostly–ungrudging. "Good luck with _that_ , though." Britta puts her tongue out at him from across the table, as if to punctuate his point. 

Annie leans her head on his shoulder, partly to hide her answering smile. "Thanks, Jeff," she says, meaning that now in ways she hadn't before. 

He doesn't answer–doesn't have to, really. They let the white noise of the study group's chatter wash over them, the garbled discussion of unfinished homework, and faux alien invasions and a thousand stupid things in between. There's still the problem of Abed's suspicion, and the lace-trimmed bra buried beneath all those paints in the supply closet–but Annie thinks, for once, she won't worry about that today. 

Let it be tomorrow's problem. 


End file.
